


Catharsis

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Angst and Porn, Arguing, Catharsis, Coping, Dom/sub Undertones, Fight Sex, Fights, Inline with canon, M/M, Masturbation, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-25
Updated: 2015-06-25
Packaged: 2018-04-02 13:03:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4061059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Every step feels like failure, every inhale tastes like not good enough, and by the time they are at Gokudera’s front door his hands are trembling more from the furious need to prove himself than from the exertion of making the walk back unaided." Gokudera is furious after he and Yamamoto lose to Squalo, but as it turns out Yamamoto isn't particularly calm either.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Catharsis

Gokudera doesn’t speak the entire way back to his apartment.

He doesn’t need to. Yamamoto fell into step with him as soon as he started the long process of limping his way back, for once willing to let the silence hum with tension between them, and Gokudera doesn’t care if he has company or not, doesn’t particularly care if he ends up taking out his frustration in the form of slamming a fist into his wall or scratching red welts down the line of Yamamoto’s back. All he can consider is the anger, hot and aching like a sunburn just under his skin, prickling crawling tension up his spine and over his scalp until he can’t relax into the hurt of his own body. The pain is nothing compared to the agonizing sense of inadequacy in him, the memory of Squalo’s scoffing amusement as he knocked both of them back with barely a pause for breath. Every step feels like failure, every inhale tastes like  _not good enough_ , and by the time they are at Gokudera’s front door his hands are trembling more from the furious need to prove himself than from the exertion of making the walk back unaided.

He doesn’t hold the door for Yamamoto. The other boy catches it as it comes open, follows Gokudera into the dark of the space, but even then Gokudera doesn’t bother turning, even when he hears the click of the door fitting back into its frame.

“Lock it,” he growls, the words absent their usual fire just because he can’t manage anything but the thrumming resonance of self-loathing pouring through him right now. He has to reach out to brace himself on the wall while he toes his shoes off, his balance going precarious on legs so overworked they are numb rather than painful. There’s the scuff of sneakers behind him, Yamamoto dropping to a knee to untie his laces and pull his own shoes off, and Gokudera leaves him in the doorway with his abandoned shoes, limping through the hallway as the ache of physical pain falls into the forefront of his awareness to slot in against his psychological defeat. It’s not until he hears the telltale shuffle of footsteps behind him that he pauses, speaks without turning around.

“You don’t want to be here.” Flat, stripped of anything but a faint hiss of rage underneath the words, anger too internalized to even lash out into Gokudera’s voice. “I’m not going to be good company.”

The sound behind him is startling, rough and heavy and so much a growl Gokudera doesn’t recognize it as a laugh, doesn’t recognize it as  _Yamamoto_  until he hears the words. “You think  _I_  will be?”

The shock as much as anything else is what turns him, disbelief that those words in that tone could come from Yamamoto’s ever-smiling mouth. Gokudera doesn’t know what, exactly, he expected; maybe sympathy, pity, the affection he can’t seem to push out of the other boy’s clear gaze. But there’s nothing of that in Yamamoto’s face, neither apology nor the usual idiotic pleasure Gokudera has come to expect; there’s a shadow instead, dark across his features and dragging his mouth into what is very nearly a frown, and the anger in Gokudera’s blood flickers like a flame catching the end of a fuse.

“Yeah,” Gokudera snaps, stepping in towards the threat that is all over Yamamoto’s face. Instinct recoils, whispers at him to  _stay away_ , but he ignores it the way he always does, moves towards the danger until his blood is crackling with promise. “You’re not the Tenth’s right-hand man, no one expects  _anything_  from you.”

There’s a twist across Yamamoto’s forehead, a crease of confusion settling in between dark brows. “You think that was  _your_  failure?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Gokudera snaps, ready to fight for his right to own this, as possessive over failure as he would be over as-yet-untasted success. “It was  _my fight_ , you shouldn’t have gotten involved at all.”

“It was  _our_  fight,” Yamamoto says, and something about that slips sideways under Gokudera’s skin, tears razor-sharp worse than a fight for singular ownership would have.

“ _No_.” His voice is jumping higher, the low threat of sound catching alight, turning into a shout at the back of his throat. Yamamoto is near, now, Gokudera keeps stepping in closer and Yamamoto’s not giving any ground at all, the line of his jaw looks like a declaration of war. “It was never  _our_  anything, it was  _mine_.” He doesn’t feel the ache in his fingers when he fists them into Yamamoto’s shirt, drags the other down to balance the gap in their heights. “You could have  _watched_ , you never needed to get hurt at all.”

“We should have come after him together,” Yamamoto says, words spilling like water over his lips, but the fire in Gokudera is too hot to be quenched, his anger and guilt and seething self-hatred all too much to bear in silence.

“ _No!_ ” and he is shouting now, spitting the words right into Yamamoto’s face. “No, I’m not your partner, I’m not your  _friend_ , stop trying to make us a  _team!_ ”

“We  _are_  a team,” Yamamoto says, and “Don’t make me watch you get hurt,” and he’s kissing Gokudera before the other can form words for any kind of a response. It’s nothing like the usual care he brings into the action; this is rough, harsh and bruising against Gokudera’s mouth, teeth and tongues immediately with no time to brace for them. Gokudera still has a fist of Yamamoto’s shirt but Yamamoto’s hands are free to land in his hair, to tangle into fists that hold them together even when Gokudera growls incoherent rage against the furious pressure of Yamamoto’s lips. It burns through him, fire blistering down his veins and up his throat, until he’s not sure if it’s more the freefall swoop of desire or the tight knot of rage that is trembling through his hands when he shoves at Yamamoto’s chest to force the other off him. Yamamoto’s hands come free, he goes stumbling back down the hall, but Gokudera is following, surging into the other boy’s personal space and reaching out to shove at his shoulders.

“I don’t  _need_  your protection,” he snaps with lips still flushed from friction, plants his hand flat on Yamamoto’s chest and pushes. The other starts to step backwards, misses his footing on legs still shaky from his injuries, and lands heavily on the floor. In other circumstances Gokudera would flinch just from how hard the other fell -- he hadn’t intended to actually knock him over, had been expecting Yamamoto’s usual baseball-quick reflexes -- but right now he’s  _furious_ , hands curling into fists and mouth open on what could be a shout or anticipation of a kiss or both, and he doesn’t have attention to spare for worry. He’s falling to his knees himself, landing so hard it would be bruise-painful if he weren’t numb with fighting adrenaline, his hand moving of its own accord to tighten at the back of Yamamoto’s neck.

“I don’t  _want_  your protection, I can take care of myself” and he’s the one doing the kissing, this time, the edges of his teeth catching at Yamamoto’s lips and crushing their mouths together with the same vicious force. Yamamoto tastes like gunpowder, lingering smoke from the enemy’s explosions clinging to his skin, and it makes Gokudera growl, brings him tipping in closer until his knee is sliding in between Yamamoto’s legs and his shoulders are pressed in against the other boy’s.

“That’s not--” Yamamoto starts when Gokudera pulls back for a breath, goes silent again under another burst of kissing. Gokudera’s clinging to his shirt, now, his balance only barely maintained by the dragging hold he has on the other’s clothes. “That’s not what I want,” he insists when Gokudera draws back to growl irritation past lips aching with friction. “I just want to  _help_  you. I want to work together.” His eyes are still dark, his mouth still falling into the weight of a frown even around the open-mouthed gasp for air he’s taking. Gokudera can’t decide if he likes or hates it, can’t decide if he wants to shut Yamamoto up or drink in every word spilling past his lips. “I just don’t want to see you get hurt if I can help it.”

“Shut up,” Gokudera snaps, his voice deciding on a response while his heart is still hammering uncertainty in his chest. “Just  _shut up_ , Yamamoto, don’t be  _idiotic_.” Yamamoto’s eyes shadow, his brows drawing together in threat of some as-yet unseen darkness, but Gokudera cuts him off, drags him closer bodily and fits them as close together as he can get them. He feels hot, itchy under his skin and burning all over his body, and his knee is pressing Yamamoto’s legs apart and when he rocks in he can feel the other boy hard against the pressure.

It’s worth pulling away, for that, worth finding the shape of a grin somewhere amidst the pain of failure and injuries and the uncomfortable tingling ache of unformed desire. “I can’t believe you’re  _hard_  right now,” Gokudera spits, lets his hand at Yamamoto’s neck slide hard down his chest so he can dig his fingers in against the front of the other boy’s jeans, grind his palm into the heat there. “Are you a fucking masochist?”

“I’m not,” Yamamoto insists, sounding faintly petulant in his own defense. “You were  _kissing_  me, of course I’m hard.” His eyelashes are heavy over his still-shadowed eyes, his mouth bruised dark like evidence for his statement. “And so’re you,” he says, reasonably enough, tips his leg up to bump between Gokudera’s. The contact sparks through Gokudera, collects the itchy discomfort along his spine into a snap-quick explanation, like he couldn’t recognize the shape of unfulfilled want until someone else pointed it out to him.

“So what?” he snaps, shoves forward until the press of his shoulder is bearing Yamamoto to the floor. Yamamoto goes, even if he still looks unhappier than Gokudera has ever seen him, even if his lips are still pouting against a frown. “Are you offering to do something about it?” He presses down with his hand, deliberately rough and too-hard so he can watch the frustration on Yamamoto’s face vanish into blank unfocus, the attention in his eyes flicker away as he shudders and bucks up against the touch. It makes Gokudera feel powerful, gives him back some small measure of the control the enemy so easily stripped away, so he does it again, sliding his hand down a little so he’s dragging friction against Yamamoto’s cock through his jeans. Yamamoto groans, this time, grabs blindly at Gokudera’s shoulder, and Gokudera is grinning without thinking about it, the undirected frustration in him turning into the focus of heat in his veins.

“Want me to fuck you?” he says, growling the words low and fast so he doesn’t have time to be embarrassed. Yamamoto’s eyes go wide but his hips come up, rocking desperate against Gokudera’s palm, and Gokudera is pressing down in immediate response, holding Yamamoto down by the point of contact.

“I’m not even going to take you into the bedroom,” he decides aloud, and Yamamoto’s eyelashes flutter, his throat works against a groan. Gokudera can feel his heartbeat like it’s pumping fire through his veins, can feel the hard outline of Yamamoto’s cock perfectly outlined against his palm. “Just right here on the floor.” Yamamoto’s grabbing at his wrist like he’s trying to ground himself, but there’s no strength to his hold; Gokudera shakes him off easily, pushes hard against the button of the other boy’s jeans. Yamamoto’s giving way as fast as the fabric, his knees falling open in unspoken offer as Gokudera drags his zipper down. It’s enough space to fit his hand in past the cover of the denim, but he doesn’t hesitate over the possibility, barely glances at the line of Yamamoto’s length tenting against the thin fabric of his boxers; he’s grabbing at the other boy’s hip instead, shoving hard until Yamamoto takes the hint and rolls over onto his stomach.

“Up on your knees,” Gokudera orders, his body tingling with the proof of his power, control over the situation he so critically lacked not an hour before. And Yamamoto is obeying, bracing his hands at the floor and lifting himself over his knees so when Gokudera fits his fingers under the edge of the other’s clothes he can drag jeans and boxers down and off Yamamoto’s hips in one unhindered movement.

“Fuck,” he growls, half-growl and mostly anger, desire indistinguishable from rage in his blood. “You really  _do_  want this, don’t you?” He doesn’t need an answer, not when he can see the hot-heavy weight of the other boy’s cock between his legs and the tremble of anticipation in Yamamoto’s thighs. Gokudera wants to touch him, wants to dig his fingertips into the heat along the inside of Yamamoto’s knees and shove his legs wider, wants to reach in under him and wrap his fingers against the other boy’s cock just to watch him jerk and whimper, but he wants to fuck him more, is aching with the need to claim  _something_  as his.

“Stay there,” he snaps, pushes to his feet so he can move towards the bedroom. Every step is dragging friction, the heavy fabric of his jeans pressing in against him, but at least the bedroom is close, the bottle of lube within easy reach of the bed. Gokudera is opening it as he comes back out, has his fingers dripping slick by the time he’s dropping back to his knees, and Yamamoto is starting to tremble visibly, whether from delayed adrenaline or rising anticipation or burning want, Gokudera doesn’t know and doesn’t care. He just reaches for it, braces a hand on Yamamoto’s hip so he can pick up the tremor of reaction across his fingertips, and when Yamamoto lets out a sigh of tension giving way Gokudera slicks a finger against the other boy’s entrance, crooks a finger and starts to thrust inside. Yamamoto’s hot to the touch, soft as silk and burning like fire, drawing tighter around Gokudera as he pushes in deeper. It just flushes Gokudera harder, persuades him to fit his knees on either side of one of Yamamoto’s, and when he rocks up he’s close enough to press himself against the resistance of the other boy’s hip.

“We’re not a team,” Gokudera insists, grinds in closer as his finger sinks deeper. Yamamoto’s back arches, his hands tightening against the floor; Gokudera can see the scuffs on the other’s knuckles, skin rubbed raw from sliding across the ground during the fight. His own body is aching, in some distant portion of his awareness, but mostly he’s hot, burning with fire he can’t quench except against Yamamoto’s body. He draws his hand back, thrusts in again, fast and all at once; Yamamoto groans, shifts himself forward onto an elbow instead of his hands, and reaches down between his legs to touch himself. His knees slide wider, he clenches down against Gokudera’s touch, and Gokudera lets him, doesn’t try to stop the other boy jerking off. Better to keep talking, to let his anger fall into words while he draws his hand back to stretch Yamamoto around another finger.

“I’m not your  _friend_ ,” he snarls, makes the word into an insult. Yamamoto whines, his hips coming forward and thighs drawing tight like he’s rocking forward against his own touch; Gokudera can feel the shudders of reflexive response in the other’s body, the relief of friction trembling along his spine. “I don’t  _need_  your protection.” He spreads his fingers, feels the give of Yamamoto’s body opening up to his touch. “Stop trying to be my  _savior_.”

“I’m not,” Yamamoto gasps. It’s muffled, rushed and breathless, the sound coming against his arm where it’s pressed to the floor. “I just don’t want to watch you get hurt.”

“God  _damn_  it,” Gokudera snaps, pulls his fingers free too-fast so Yamamoto chokes and shudders at the sensation. His fingers are slippery at the zipper of his jeans, the motion delayed until he can get his hand to tighten on the metal pull. Then it comes open, his other hand urging the fabric off his hips, and he’s shifting his knees in to fit between Yamamoto’s, shoving the other’s balance wider as Yamamoto starts to gasp for air against the floor. “You are so  _frustrating_.” His hands land at Yamamoto’s hips, brace the other boy in place for the forward thrust of Gokudera’s cock, and he’s just starting to slide home when Yamamoto jerks under his touch as he starts to come.

“For fuck’s sake,” Gokudera blurts, half-irritated and half-impressed, finishes out the stroke so he’s pressed in against the fluttering tension of orgasm running through the other boy. Yamamoto’s hand has gone still, the frantic motion of his arm unmoving now from Gokudera’s perspective, but Gokudera doesn’t have the patience to wait for the other to finish. He draws back, tips his weight in over his knees, and when he moves it’s in pursuit of his own satisfaction, all but ignoring the shivering motion of Yamamoto still coming around him. It’s just extra friction, more heat and more motion, and even when Yamamoto’s gasps start turning into whimpering reaction to Gokudera’s thrusts the other doesn’t steady out his pace.

“Is this what you wanted?” Gokudera asks, mostly rhetorically, fitting the words between the gasps of air he has to take between each rocking thrust. “Does this make you feel better?”

“Ah,” Yamamoto says, and “God,” and “ _Gokudera_ ,” and all together it sounds like affirmative, like admission.

“We  _lost_ ,” Gokudera says, tries to turn the words hot and vicious on his tongue, but the fire in him is converting into satisfaction too fast, it’s a runaway reaction he can’t slow down, and they come out low and purring like a suggestion. “This doesn’t  _change_  that.”

“Gokudera,” Yamamoto breathes, sounding wrung-out and shaky, and there’s tension along his spine again, hunching over into his shoulders. “I--” Gokudera snaps his hips forward, quick and sudden, and Yamamoto jerks, arching and mewling against the floor like he’s lost all his coherency. There’s a quiver of motion through the other’s body, Gokudera can feel it around him, and when he lets his hand free to reach down and around Yamamoto’s hip he’s not surprised to find the other boy hard again.

“Yamamoto,” he growls, and his attention is coming apart, he is becoming the fire in his veins, all the pieces of his self tensing in expectation of an explosion. When he drags his hand up Yamamoto gasps, tightens in against Gokudera’s cock, and Gokudera’s throat drags out a laugh the no less sharp for being sincere.

“I can’t believe you’re gonna come again,” he observes, and the way Yamamoto shudders under him is enough to finish the job. Gokudera’s breath stalls in his chest, his exhale turning into a choking groan, and it’s only complete determination that keeps his hand moving through the burst of sensation that hits him. It comes in waves, separate splashes of heat into his body, and at some faraway distance he can hear Yamamoto gasping but it’s just the night-sky backdrop to the flaring fireworks of relief in him. His hand is still moving, dragging up over radiant heat, and just as Gokudera blinks himself back into awareness Yamamoto takes a short, choked-off inhale and melts into pleasure under him.

Gokudera takes an inhale, can feel it filling his chest with the deep-breath relaxation he hasn’t felt since their loss. When he pulls back and lets Yamamoto go the other boy collapses to the floor like his strings have been cut, only managing to turn his head to blink hazy attention at Gokudera as the other drops to lie flat on his back beside Yamamoto. For a moment there is silence, just the sound of both of them breathing too-hard and too-hot while Gokudera lets the flush of pleasure tingle out into the tips of his fingers and along his spine, lets the hurt of his injuries come back into his awareness. Then he takes a deliberate inhale, forms words into coherency on his tongue, and when he speaks it’s with only a sideways glance at Yamamoto.

“We won’t lose,” he says, careful with the words as if they’re a vow. “Next time.”

Yamamoto blinks, slow like he’s considering. “Okay,” he says, and then there’s a touch, fingers reaching out to interlace with Gokudera’s. “We fight together, next time.”

Gokudera would put up more of a fight if he were less cathartic-tired all through his body. As it is he just huffs an almost-laugh, tips his head back towards the ceiling and shuts his eyes.

“Okay,” he says, and he doesn’t pull his hand away.


End file.
